The limited days
to imagine all that’s next—
to sing and make things.

I forget myself—
at my desk, under lamplight,
darkness coming on.

The moon starts again,
a curve in the sky, alone,
catching in my throat.

The remembered me,
I am connected to you,
though not you, today.

Gentle companion,
finding snow in the shadows,
nosing the full yard.

Fragile and dreaming,
the unlikeliness of it—
you and me, here, now.

Thankful for this sun,
letters and words and stories—
told and yet to be.

The day’s quiddity—
optimism made of sun,
things that feel like sun.

Rearranged daily—
accumulated wisdom
in the changing sky, birds, trees.

Sun over pink clouds,
the interior lights up,
things take a new shape.

At the museum
searching lasts for centuries—
the trying things out.

November lays down,
cold birds scatter and fly off—
how do I stay whole?

These dark passageways
lead to dark hiding places
inside my own heart.

It's always deeper,
bobbing on the tiny lake,
the long drive back home.

We could both dive in
and become silver with sun,
reflecting the trees.

Hear wind over grass—
carry seeds to the blue field,
let your hand let go.

The moment passes,
memories fold together,
all shadow and light.

Signs of woodpeckers,
a forest Van Gogh would paint,
color on color.

The chittering days
of gardens and long Sundays—
not sure who I was.

What is loneliness?
It settles in next to you,
filling the empty space.